


hand on the harpstring

by BucketofWater



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Caleb is a good dad who loves his daughter Nott, Forehead Kisses, Kissing, M/M, Panic Attacks, So many kisses, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 14:57:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13860126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BucketofWater/pseuds/BucketofWater
Summary: five times Mollymauk kisses Caleb and one time Caleb kisses him back.





	hand on the harpstring

**Author's Note:**

> Minor warning for Caleb's panic attack although I try to be as inexplicit as possible. If you're not comfortable with reading things of that nature please skip #1. 
> 
> 5 + 1 trope for kisses is what I am here for and this ship is ruining my life 
> 
> also Caleb is an actual dad because Nott is just a baby and how much he loves her makes me weak.

 

_**i.** _

 

Sodden smoke congeals in his lungs and Caleb discovers that he cannot breathe; each hitching breath he takes is met by the dreadful reluctance of his chest to inhale, his heart quivers like a feral beast. About him chaos rages on, tendrils of flame lap at his mantle with a fierce scorch he does not process, his body feels unlike his own in its disconnect, as if he is trapped in a cell-house of his own creation. 

A cry rings out and he cannot place the location, cannot place himself in the morrowless space he occupies, his hands feel frigid and his shoulders terse and while his eyes roll about in his head he does not see.

He is going to die he realises with morbid horror, the flame will consume all like a pestilence and leave behind flakes of ash in its wake.

_ I don’t want that  _ A voice that must be his own declares, feeble in their plea, like a petulant child unknowing of the workings of the universe.

Something warm clutches his face and for a terrible gut-wrenching moment he fears it is the encompassing wisp of flame but it does not burn, it spindles out and drags him from the recesses of his horror; he feels hand without truly feeling at all.

Mollymauk is there when he blinks, must have been there all along and Caleb looks at him with a disorient acknowledgement, like accepting the presence of a flower or a chair, something that is there and will remain to be there for the foreseeable future. 

His gaze still feels damp and shrouded, the world around him shimmers in an unfocused haze but the point of pressure of Molly’s hands are grounding him in the moment. He watches Molly move as an abstract legion of colour, feels a soft pressure glance his forehead and Caleb sighs.

“There’s time for this later.” He says. Molly pulls away from him and Caleb helplessly follows.

He moves forward.

  
  


_**ii.** _

 

Their motley brigade inevitably discovers danger lurking in the depths and once more Caleb finds himself testing fate more than a man of his calibre should ever dare. 

With a deafening crack the haggard looking Gnoll lets fly an arrow that breezes passed Caleb’s ear, missing by scant inches. The arrow connects with the stone pillar to his right with a resounding crack, raining down a shower of debris.

Everything had descended into chaos in this den; the low light of his cantrip illuminates marred flesh and cracked, feasted upon bones littering the cobbled ground. Four speared and seeping hyenas lay wasted, felled where they once stood by a quick bolt through the eye or a sword piercing their thin flesh. It smells disgusting, the musk of earth and rot and mange festering in the stagnant air. These mines have poor ventilation and the air in here is likely ageless, Caleb looks to the desecrated remains of people scattered about him and wonders if he can smell the scourge of their ancestors who met the same fate.

A gut-wrenching snarl echoes throughout and a large, alarmed Gnoll lashes out with his spear cutting the air with a hiss. Three hellish creatures remain in the cavernous space, two of their comrades already felled and rotting. The archer is stooped and crooked, clearly malformed and as Caleb faces down the familiar look reflected in the whites of the creature’s bulging eyes he recognises the emotion: it is terrified.

Paler than the rest of the pack so far two large, spear-wielding mongrels are bearing down on Beau, Fjord and Jester with terrible efficiency drawing clattering sounds of mangled armour and the sharp impact of steel that causes Caleb to wince and his ears to ring.

Caleb falls back a few steps as the scrawny, petrified archer draws on him; in the chaos of the cave he cannot find a nook to hide in or a companion to summon to his side who is not otherwise already occupied. Adrenaline seizes his muscles, rendering his body stiff and static and his boot snags against a dislocated jawbone with a sickening scrape like nails on porcelain.

With a practised grace that could not be muddled even in his haste he weaves his fingers hurriedly about one another while an incantation forms on his lips like a prayer. A spindled thread of energy forms, a thin ethereal tendril that he moulds with as much compassion he can muster when swallowing back an acidic mouthful of bile. Within a matter of seconds he holds a translucent orb of energy that hums with the creaking siren wail of the abyss and the intimate warmth of pleasure runs through him at holding something he has created.

Coating the orb in a shroud of layered, icy scales is simple and the frost puffs out in a swarming mist, turning the sphere a chromatic blue that stings his palms.

Before he can discharge it however there is a rainbow jostle of colour in his peripheral as Mollymauk darts passed him on nimble feet, swords brandished and twirling into a high arc as the man brings them down to strike. He calls out to the creature in his guttural infernal words that turn Caleb’s spine to lead with fear and he catches the Gnoll falter in panic.

Molly swings downwards and the Gnoll counters with his ironclad forearm, bashing away the weapon with a hollow crack. While he is a small creature for his breed he is still a ravenous Gnoll and now he looms over Mollymauk with his terrible, mangled maw drawn into a snarl. With an arrow still clasped in his paw Caleb watches as the creature thrusts out, aiming to embed the barbed head into Molly’s abdomen.

Caleb fires the frigid orb as if he were lobbing a rock; it whistles through the air and shatters into a shower of cutting shards against the beast’s temple. It cries out with a wounded shriek before crumpling like a burlap sack to the ruined floor, eyes rolling wildly to the back of its skull.

“Nice aim.” Molly says, panting as he shakes out his sword arm all the while eyeing the beast warily as if it is wont to spring up and tear a piece of him asunder.

“It is just a spell.” Caleb says lowly. His hands are shaking madly and he clasps them together before him in a desperate bid to maintain some composure.

“Then thank the Gods for both your spells and your marvellous hands.” Molly laughs, clearing the sparse space between them in a long stride before taking Caleb’s balled hands up in one of his own.

Mollymauk bows his head down and presses his lips against the rough, scratched skin of Caleb’s knuckles before drawing away with a flourish to return to the fray.

Caleb swallows thickly and summons forth another chromatic orb, at ease now that his hands do not shake so fiercely.

 

_**iii.** _

 

“I have dabbled in my fair share of seeing too of course, prior to discovering my gifts with the cards.” Mollymauk says nonchalantly, as if predictions of fate and fortune are something fickle enough to be received by a shrug. 

Their camp is quiet enough to allow Caleb to hear the wailing call of the breeze, the flutter of leaves as it passes by and the crackling sputter of their fire as it perishes. Morning will be upon them soon and as their watch comes to a conclusion the lilac purples of dawn paint their encampment like a surreal fever dream. They are seated on the dusty earth on opposing sides of a travel crate that is being substituted currently for a low set table.

“Seeing. Do you mean as in predicting the future? Reading fortunes and the sorts?” Caleb asks, bowing his head closer in interest. The carnival had fascinated him infinitely and had he the opportunity he would have taken hours exploring every niche and spectacular display he could. However fate would not grant him the respite he sought and so he draws his tales from Mollymauk, who will gladly weave them with the filigree words and ornate gestures of a man who is well accustomed to holding attention and fabricating fantastic stories.

“Exactly that! Why I bet two silver right now that I can delve into the crevasse of your very soul and unravel your manifest destiny.” Molly says, pointed grin creasing his face with mirth. He extends his hand across the crate between them and sets his upturned palm ahead of Caleb expectantly.

“That is a lot for just two silver.” Caleb says wryly but still places his hand atop Molly’s. His palm is warm and cool when his fingers clutch around him and the skin feels rough and uneven where the mottled scars bisect his flesh.

“I would typically only ever encounter farmers and the poor; why would I be extortionate when the Gods had little to tell them?” Mollymauk says, pulling Caleb’s hand close to him, palm upturned as if he is to begin reading the creases there. Caleb struggles to uncurl his fingers where they have reflexively shied away from Molly’s pointed fangs.

“I have never quite had one like you.” Molly whispers and Caleb feels his face turn hot. He ducks his head quickly in an aborted attempt to hide his embarrassment while he fishes his pockets for the familiar feel of silver. Eventually he resurfaces and sets the coin down with two resounding thunks. Molly follows the motion with a sharp eye and smirks when Caleb meets his gaze.

“Alright Caleb Widogast let us discover what the Gods have to say about you.” Mollymauk says lowly and although he feels that it is all so absurdly faux he finds himself being drawn into the story Molly is weaving; his breath catches and his heart thumps excitedly  _ pham-param _ .

Mollymauk’s thumb smooths carefully across the soft skin of his wrist and his heart beats all the harder for it. He bows his head low and the hot air of his exhale whispers across Caleb’s skin like a phantom. For one tense, confusing moment Caleb thinks that Molly is about to bite him before the man opens his mouth and drags is tongue in one long, wet stripe from Caleb’s index finger to the jutting bone of his wrist. His damp palm prickles in the cold morning air and his heart feels erratic, drumming a weary mantra against his ribs. Molly just licked him,  _ what the fuck. _

In a motion that causes his hand to tremble Molly presses his lips against Caleb’s palm in a firm kiss, the impression of his teeth are hard and wicked against his flesh and Caleb stares slack jawed at Molly in his bewilderment.

Silences passes between them like a ghoul ever looming, shrouding Caleb in an unknown tension that causes his shoulders to cramp terribly. Or it may just be the way he is extending his arm. Regardless Mollymauk seems to have finished his Seeing for he slowly raises his head and opens his eyes to catch Caleb’s attention with his own infernal gaze. Caleb stares transfixed as Molly smooths his skin with the repetitive tracing of his thumb once and then twice before relinquishing his hold so that Caleb can fold his cramped and still slightly damp arm to his side once more.

“The Gods have advised that you avoid Gnolls.” Molly says seriously and Caleb chokes on some spittle, doubling over himself as he shakes with a few raw coughs. Eventually he regains his composure and turns his attentions to Molly who is watching him with a soft curve melding his lips into something pleasant. Caleb’s stomach pulses warmly and he squanders the feeling before it can dig roots and fester. Instead he clears his now sore throat obnoxiously.

“I had already gathered that.” Caleb says and Molly nods sympathetically, drawing his hands together like a composed consultant.

“I see. Unfortunately the Gods do not permit refunds for their words.” He says and Caleb barks a laugh.

 

_**iv.** _

 

Nott is a comforting weight in his lap. She is curled in what must be a tremendously uncomfortable contortion that is truly an ode to Golbin nimbleness in order to occupy the entirety of the space between his crossed legs. Her form shakes with wispy little breaths and her face is lax and tepid with slumber, between her taloned fingers she clasps her platinum flask like some bastardised doll.

Caleb rests his book atop her and turns the pages in tandem to her slow breathing. Frumpkin has formed a nest in the matted tendrils of her hair and the fluff of his feathers encompasses his little head as he tucks it beneath his wing. With his unoccupied hand Caleb reaches out to ruffle the scruff of his neck.

Their camp occupies a sloping knoll of grass leading down to meet the mouth of a babbling river, torrents of water roar like the mantra of a howling ocean and Caleb watches as Fjord sets his bedroll as far from the shore as the group could deem reasonable. Beau and Jester have pushed their rolls together for the evening next to the fire-pit; giggling together behind folded hands that make Caleb feel tremendously self conscious for an array of unfounded reasons.

Caleb had retired to sit by the river to read, at first intending to dip his feet and then banishing the idea when the frigid waters crashed and rolled as if bemoaning his very presence. Instead he sat with loosely folded legs that Nott had slunk into with a yawn at first intending to read along with him but quickly falling victim to the turmoil of their travels.

Mollymauk finds him as he reaches the end of his forty-seventh page, he holds up the index finger of his free hand in a bid of silence until he is entirely finished before turning to look at the man whose face is creased with amusement.

“I was just hoping to bid you both goodnight.” Mollymauk says and now that Caleb can properly look him over he notes the cradled bedroll and the exhausted stoop of his shoulders.

“Oh, alright. Goodnight.” Caleb says, nodding once and then lowering his gaze awkwardly to continue his reading.

With the whisper of a thousand layered fabrics rustling together Molly closes the distance between them, bending low at the waist so that his face falls level to Caleb’s own, scarcely inches away. The air is warm when he laughs and it ghosts over Caleb’s cheek like a gentle caress. Their eyes meet almost involuntarily and Caleb ignores the erratic little jolt of his heart at their proximity; he watches as Molly looms lower, sweeping down to press a soundless kiss to Nott’s temple before retracting back into his contorted half-bow.

Mollymauk’s face is handsome in this light, Caleb notes with a start, his eyes are slightly damp with exhaustion but all that does is embolden the impossible crimson that is swamped by an abyssal pupil. The regal curve of his jaw bends into a tender smile, baring his teeth into a tempered smile so much more delicate than his usual brazen grin; his fangs are visible but only barely. Wayward splashes of colour paint his face a multitude of radiant hues that splay off of his tattoo like a beacon; looking at Mollymauk fills him with an overwhelmingly surreal awe, like looking at the ancient portraits of his ancestors.

A touch almost too delicate to process skims his cheek and his eyes flicker downwards to catch Molly’s fingers tracing the curve of his jaw, clasping a wayward strand of his hair and twisting it ever so tenderly. Caleb’s heart stutters pathetically and an obtrusive lump swells in his throat; once dampened by the evening chill his skin feels aflame. Molly is touching him like a lover would and Caleb’s mind is struggling to process it, all at once he wants to both slap his hand away and flee and to lean into the touch with a croon. Instead he settles on the perfect medium and remains dreadfully frozen in his surprise.

Molly brings his face closer, a whisper of a breath plumes over the flesh of his cheek and the errant beating of his heart is all that he can hear.

Mollymauk’s lips are chaste and warm against the heat of his cheek and they hold firm for a few terrible, glorious seconds while Caleb tries to recall quite how to breathe.

“Goodnight, Caleb.” Molly says lowly, swiping his thumb over the spot he kissed as if branding the mark to Caleb’s skin.

“Alright.” Caleb chokes out and prays fiercely to the deities that he does not sound as flustered as he feels. Molly winks at him as he pulls away and Caleb’s gut contorts itself into some eldritch gordian knot.

He feels smitten.

Nott stirs in his lap and Caleb is struck by a terrifying thought; he is  _ so _ fucked.

 

_**v.**_  

 

A jovial tune echoes throughout the tavern, the enthused wail of a fiddle rising into an exultant crescendo to accompany the beat of a small drum and the drone of a flute. Around them the room buzzes with the excited patrons, drinks clattering and jaws working as the atmosphere hums with the pleasant chatter and contentment.

It is a rather large rest stop as far as most isolated taverns go and the large oak structure houses many a strange traveller; so overcrowded that their bemusing party are the harbingers of little repute. Jester has drawn Nott away into a poorly composed dance of stomping boots and gratuitous hand-swinging, at one point uprooting a tankard from a table with a  _ splash _ and a collection of amused cheers had flooded the room to reward their effort.

Caleb watches as Fjord sidles up to Beau where she is leaning nonchalantly against the long, gleaming bar. It has a collection of intricate wooden knots carved into the grain like the veins of a mineral and Fjord traces one such marking absently as he waits for his drink to be delivered. His lips move in speech but from such a distance Caleb cannot begin to wonder what they are discussing.

“I’m just glad to finally rest my feet for a tad.” Mollymauk says from beside him. Upon entering the tavern they had occupied a rather large circular table that now only houses Caleb and Mollymauk alongside a collection of tankards in various states of consumption. Molly is nursing some fruity crimson concoction and the rich scent stings Caleb’s nose.

Caleb peers below the rim of the table to discover that Molly’s boots are propped up on the opposing chair, the tendril of his tail wrapped around his leg like a string to avoid being trodden in the chaotic environment. When he glances back up Molly is watching him with a small smile that barely makes itself apparent from behind the shroud of his tankard.

Caleb smiles back; he likes the comfortable peace he resides in with Molly, put simply Mollymauk makes him inexplicably happy.

The candle wick on their table flickers and sputters, casting a mirage of shadows about them and Caleb watches the way the darkness splays across Molly’s face. He should perhaps not stare quite as much as he does but he is three tanks of mead into his evening and the alcohol emboldens him as it throttles his resolve.  

His entirety hums with pleasant warmth brought on by good drink and good company and the small, jovial thrill that runs through him when Molly smiles. It is not entirely healthy he thinks, to be entertaining these parasitic feelings but for one evening he can cast aside reason to the abyss, he can allow his heart to tremble in abstract delight just for right now.

“Try this!” Mollymauk says abruptly, closing the minimal space between them to pass Caleb the sickly smelling tankard. The liquid sloshes with the motion and a few rogue speckles of crimson soak the floor around them, Caleb follows the droplets with his eyes rather than risking raising his gaze to look at Molly and the high flush coating the man’s cheeks.

“Okay.” Caleb says cautiously, guiding the cup to his lips with one hand, Molly is still holding it for him at the base and their fingers slip together with the movement, sending a thrill of excitement running down Caleb’s arm.

It is not terribly bitter, the tart undertone of winter berries and liberal amounts of sugar do nothing to cut through the fierce bite of the citrus rum. Caleb swallows down a few sips and his throat burns with the motion. It is a very Molly sort of drink he decides.

Molly pulls the tankard away, setting it on the stained surface of the table; multitudes of layered crescent moon stains litter the table in a variety of colours and disgusting, sticky textures.

“Oh.” Mollymauk says when Caleb looks back up, he has not fully returned to the comfort of his own seat yet and the warmth between them is almost palpable, he is close enough that their shoulders press flush together.

With a fluid motion he raises his index finger to tap at the corner dimple of his lips, nodding his head at Caleb who quickly understands his meaning. He raises his hand to swipe angrily at his mouth with the back of his tarnished sleeve but Mollymauk reaches out then, grasps his forearm so tenderly that Caleb freezes entirely, like a rabbit in the lamplight.

“Here, let me.” Molly says and closes the space between them.

The touch of his lips is delicate when they meet the corner Caleb’s own, as if hesitant to breach the boundary into a full kiss. Caleb’s breath hitches and he can smell the bitter rum now, heady and warm.

It is not how kisses are described in his books, with enough cosmic sway to render the moon immobile with awe, but it is still lovely to be so close to another person. Caleb’s heart thumps erratically in his chest which now feels so suddenly weightless. He wants to grin, to push eagerly into it so that it becomes a proper kiss, to raise a hand and cup the side of Molly’s face.

Instead he pulls away and casts a glance around the room: nobody is watching them.

“What are you doing?” Caleb says lowly, feeling his face grow warm in his embarrassment, he has always been so quick to fluster.

“I- I thought that we were having a thing.” Molly says, abruptly leaning away into his own space as if being close to Caleb now suddenly sears his skin. Mollymauk is typically so easy to read, his expressions open and his intentions painted languidly across his features; he is a performer and Caleb is accustomed to understanding exactly what Molly is thinking from just a simple glance. It is different now, Molly seems guarded and apprehensive, face drawn downwards into a frown. Caleb instantly hates the expression.

“A  _ thing _ ?” He asks instead, squinting as he tests the word on his tongue. Depending on your definition of a thing, which considering the vague nature of lexis, could be rendered down to mean almost anything at all, Caleb supposes that they were indeed having a thing.

You cannot just act on a thing in public however, who knows what prying eyes could be lingering in the shrouded borders of the tavern.

“You can’t just do that.” Caleb says lowly, leaning close and frowning as Mollymauk makes an aborted sound in his throat; almost upset. Caleb looks at him and finds that the guarded exterior has been vanquished and instead Molly seems wounded, face pallid and hollow.

“Shit okay. Sorry.” Mollymauk says shortly, standing so abruptly that his chair screeches across the floor, drawing a few curious looks from the other patrons. He flounders with hesitation for a moment, tail twitching serpentine behind him before he turns and walks towards the exit, slipping intrepid out of the tavern and into the frigid night without a word.

Caleb stares solemnly at their sister tankards and scowls at the liquids within, sighing around the growing acidic burn in his chest.

 

**_\+  i._ **

 

Beau returns to their table not a few moments later, her hands are occupied with two large brews and the solemn crease of her face suggests that she bore witness to the entire exchange. She sits heavily opposite him, sips one of her drinks thoughtfully, shudders as she swallows it and then frowns. Eventually she looks up at him and her eyebrows knit together with the illusion of concentration.

“Look, not to seem interested because I am not in the slightest, but what is going on between you and Molly?” She says, folding her hands together and leaning forward. Her dark eyes bore into him and Caleb has not felt so chastised since he was a bairn, he lowers his gaze to the planked floor.

“We are just friends.” He says and struggles not to scoff at himself. He is a poor liar.

“Are you sure? Because I have seen a whole lot of friends in my day -now don’t give me that look, I’m serious- and just friends don’t look at each other the way that you two do.” Beau says seriously, her tone is abrasive but not with the intention of cruelty, she is simply that type of woman, so frightfully blunt.

“And how is it that we are allegedly looking at one another?” Caleb asks and brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose tiredly; how obvious had his affections been that even Beauregard has picked up on them?

“Oh man, it is so fucked. He looks at you like, I don’t even know, like you’re some gilded trinket, worth more than you would ever really get for it and you’re just as bad.” She says and despite himself Caleb feels his heart stutter excitedly. The thought of Molly looking at him like that makes his nerves trill. Then all at once it is like he has been drenched by ice, the dawning realisation that he has pushed that away, that Molly will likely  _ never _ look at him like that again.

“Stop-” He warns.

“No I’m serious, you have this stupid goofy smile around him like he has just told you he can shit gold.” She proceeds as if deaf to his plea. Caleb frowns down at his hands, clutches them angrily together as if suffocating them.

“Charming.” He mumbles into the stagnant air between them.

“It’s the sentiment that matters here.” Beau says then, soft. She leans forward in a bid to catch his eye and offers a kind, genuine smile when Caleb does finally look over at her.

“I just fucked it all up, I think.” He confesses and speaking it out loud, giving voice to his worries makes his terrors fester. What if he has utterly destroyed the blossoming thing between them with one fell swoop of his incompetent tongue? He is well aware that he is a fool but acknowledging that fact and facing the damage he has wrought it almost too much. His head feels warm and clouded and tense and his nose stings with a twitch.

“Gods, are you going to cry? Tell me if you’re about to cry so I can get the fuck out of the damage zone.” Beau groans with the detached air of someone who has never properly experienced a healthy conversation about her emotions. Caleb smooths his hand over his forehead in order to ease the tension away.

“I’m not about to cry.” He says and swallows pointedly around the prominent lump in his throat that may beg to differ.

“Good. Now get out there and fix this mess. I can tolerate the sexual tension because we all kind of rock that collectively at the moment but  _ this _ ” -she flails her arms and give a frustrated grunt- “is far too much for me to deal with.” With that Beauregard stands, grasps her drink in her hand and turns to return to Fjord.

Caleb picks up the drink she left behind and eyes it wearily; another one of those winter spiced rums. It must be a house special.

Beau clears about half of the tavern floor before she spins on her heel, plods back over to him and takes the drink from his hand.

“That wasn’t for you.” She says.

Then she leaves once more, abandoning Caleb to dwell on his thoughts. He considers his life of vagrancy; although he adores Nott as if she were his own blood at points it was so infuriatingly lonely when they were displaced nomads. He enjoys having other people surrounding him, an opportunity to let his guard down and relax and to have an array of new conversations that he never would have were he alone again. The thought of things changing terrifies him. The thought of Mollymauk never kissing him again makes him feel nauseous.

In the end he is still a coward, for it is not bravery that causes him to stand and cross the room to the tavern’s heavy door, it is his fear of what will happen if he does not.

The winter night air greets him with the spray of a frigid breeze, chilling him to the bone and sprouting an encompassing numbness across his cheeks. He bundles his hands in his pockets, counts a few wayward coins and squeezes them in his fist, he squares his shoulders and carries on.

Mollymauk is leaning over the banister of the decking; his arms are crossed at the wrists while he tips his head back to watch the stars. In the moonlight he almost glows ethereal and his rainbow of silken mantles billows around him like sails. Caleb stands frozen as he watches him and his heart feels eclipsed by some inexplicable emotion.

“For all that I spend a tremendous amount of time reading words I am not overly skilled at applying them to conversation.“ Caleb says as he approaches the banister himself, he leans over it in a shadowy mimic of Molly’s position, watching the barren roads and spying the minuscule flinch Molly gives in his peripheral. 

For a long stretch of time in which the wind bites unrelenting against his sore skin Mollymauk does not speak. Caleb allows him his silence and tries not to concentrate too seriously on the way his stomach rolls in worry; throwing up would not improve this situation any. He cannot help but to panic however, he had not considered that Mollymauk could just ignore him and the concept causes an icy dread to seize him; makes his chest hollow with worry. It would be a childish act but Caleb would not be undeserving of it.

“I’m not sure what to do with that.” Mollymauk says as if a confession, quiet enough that it is almost lost to the breeze. Caleb hears him though, hears the raw, open inflection of his voice, the underlying trill of nerves.

Caleb has had enough of words for one evening, words are convoluted and double-barrelled and meanings are so difficult to decipher these days. Instead he swallows thickly and stands, ignores his sudden rush of vertigo and turns to Molly with some purpose. Molly watches him move and he shifts upright as Caleb closes the distance between them; his face is still shrouded and pallid but there is a flicker of something warm in his eyes almost like a spark when Caleb rests a hand on his cheek.

It is awkward, bringing their lips together. He cannot help but wonder what would happen if Mollymauk pushes him away, if in their separation he realised that their  _ thing _ was not worth pursuing at all. Caleb’s heart pulses at the thought and so he clenches his eyes closed and wills it away, focuses instead on the gentle pressure of Mollymauk’s lips.

He is cold to the touch and Caleb steps forward, bringing their chests to press flush together. Through the fabric of his shirts he can feel the erratic mantra of Molly’s chest pounding, and as if the motion is some errant encouragement he tilts his head and deepens the kiss.

Finally at his insistence Mollymauk seems to react. A hand comes to rest at the base of Caleb’s head, to caress his hair and to hold him more firmly in place when Molly leans closer, tilts his head just so so that their lips can meld into something fierce and intense. A second hand comes to grasp at his waist, fingers clutching desperately against him.

Caleb gasps when Molly’s tongue traces his lip, the drag of fangs over his mouth and he parts his lips for an insistent little nip.  

The kiss turns searing; Molly pulling him closer to deepen their exchange. It all leaves Caleb feeling flushed and breathless, his blood humming with exhilaration. He likes this, he likes kissing Molly and he likes it when Molly kisses him.

Both of his hands have found themselves resting on either side of Molly’s jaw, tracing nonsense runes against his skin. When they part with slick little sighs Caleb rests their foreheads together, allowing him to catch his breath. His head feels almost sappy with exuberant relief, tranquil with the simple thought that everything will be okay as long as Molly continues to kiss him and that he can continue to kiss Molly for the foreseeable future.

He opens his eyes to discover that Molly is watching him intently, head titled just enough to press against one of Caleb’s palms and his lips tilt up into a pleased smile. His eyes are flickering madly over Caleb’s face before finally coming to rest as their gazes meet.

“So this thing.” Molly says, smile blossoming into a grin that creases his eyes with mirth.

“Just shut up and kiss me.” Caleb whispers, smoothing his thumbs across Molly’s cheeks. There will be time for talk later, much later, once Caleb feels ready to attempt to have a human conversation.

Mollymauk laughs and closes the distance between them with a chaste press of lips. 

 


End file.
